Such, exactly, was the state of the country on the night when Reilly found himself a solitary traveller on the road, ignorant of his destiny, and uncertain where or in what quarter he might seek shelter until morning.

He had not gone far when he overtook another traveller, with whom he entered into conversation.

“God save you, my friend.”

“God save you kindly, sir,” replied the other; “was not this an awful night?”

“If you may say so,” returned Reilly unconsciously, and for the moment forgetting himself, “well may I, my friend.”

Indeed it is probable that Reilly was thrown somewhat off his guard by the accent of his companion, from which he at once inferred that he was a Catholic.

“Why, sir,” replied the man, “how could it be more awful to you than to any other man?”

“Suppose my house was blown down,” said Reilly, “and that yours was not, would not that be cause sufficient?”

“My house!” exclaimed the man with a deep sigh; “but sure you ought to know, sir, that it’s not every man has a house.”

“And perhaps I do know it.”

“Wasn’t that a terrible act, sir—­the burning of Mr. Reilly’s house and place?”

“Who is Mr. Reilly?” asked the other.

“A Catholic gintleman, sir, that the soldiers are afther,” replied the man.

“And perhaps it is right that they should be after him.  What did he do?  The Catholics are too much in the habit of violating the law, especially their priests, who persist in marrying Protestants and Papists together, although they know it is a hanging matter.  If they deliberately put their necks into the noose, who can pity them?”

“It seems they do, then,” replied the man in a subdued voice; “and what is still more strange, it very often happens that persons of their own creed are somewhat too ready to come down wid a harsh word upon ’em.”

“Well, my friend,” responded Reilly, “let them not deserve it; let them obey the law.”

“And are you, of opinion, sir,” asked the man with a significant emphasis upon the personal pronoun which we have put in italics; “are you of opinion, sir, that obedience to the law is always a security to either person or property?”

The direct force of the question could not be easily parried, at least by Reilly, to whose circumstances it applied so powerfully, and he consequently paused for a little to shape his thoughts into the language he wished to adopt; the man, however, proceeded: 

“I wonder what Mr. Reilly would say if such a question was put to him?”

“I suppose,” replied Reilly, “he would say much as I say—­that neither innocence nor obedience is always a security under any law or any constitution either.”